


Revelations

by bonemeal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonemeal/pseuds/bonemeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a reason why John Stilinski gets elected as the Sheriff three years consecutively, and it’s not just because he’s supremely well at target practice, which he is by the way. He’s also well versed in physical combat, which is why he’s able to aim a straight elbow to the solar plexus of the body trying to smother him in his bed in under ten seconds of regaining full consciousness. Except it feels more like elbowing a brick wall more than a human body, and all he gets in response is a grunt and an alarming tightening of the arm wrapped around his torso accompanied with little hip grinding action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations

It’s safe to say John’s grown used to waking up alone in the twin sized bed he and Claudia used to share eons ago, a bed where he hasn’t welcomed anyone else ever since his wife passed away. It’s also safe to say that he is not used to the warmth that encroaches the entirety of his body in the form of hard planes that register as abs, pecs and thigh muscles, which someone seems to be doing. He is too out of it to try and make sense of it, he still has a good couple hours until he has to be up, so he scoots closer, grinding his pyjama clad hips into the welcoming heat while strengthening his hold on the firm wall of muscle beside him. It’s most likely to be dream anyway, and the human furnace effect is more pleasant than the thought it would be. 

The next time he comes to, however, is different. 

There’s a reason why John Stilinski gets elected as the Sherfiff three years consecutively, and it’s not just because he’s supremely well at target practice, which he is by the way. He’s also well versed in physical combat, which is why he’s able to aim a straight elbow to the solar plexus of the body trying to smother him in his bed in under ten seconds of regaining full consciousness. Except it feels more like elbowing a brick wall more than a human body, and all he gets in response is a grunt and an alarming tightening of the arm wrapped around his torso accompanied with little hip grinding action. John takes a moment to himself in order to calm down and breathe through his nose while counting to five, because the situation might be more dire than it presents itself to be.

There’s a hand on the lower planes of his belly, creeping dangerously close to the hemline of his underwear, so he does the next reasonable thing, which is to reach for his glock that’s supposed to be tucked in the drawer right next to his- there’s a wall blocking his nightstand and for the first time, John blinks his eyes open, only to be met with his son’s weird comic book superhero posters. The feeling of dread slowly but surely wrenches his gut just at the same time the arm around him pulls him back into an embrace where John gets to gaze over and when he finally gets a good look on who’s been trying to snuggle him he stops trying to dislodge the person. It still doesn’t help from another fresh bout of dread freezing him over though, because that is unmistakably, Derek Hale, the ex-con who looks defenceless as the 16 y/o kid who huddled close to his sister with a guilt no 16 y/o should carry, the kid that sherriff wrapped a blanket around after the arson investigation. _Man,_ his mind unhelpfully supplies. The body lying next to him is decidedly of the man variety, complete with abs and biceps and triceps and that court ordered arresting charges. The very same man is now passes out on Stiles’s bed, face mushed against the pillow and an arm draped over the sherriff, drooling into the said pillow with his hair in disarray. Despite the bizarre nature of the situation John can’t help but notice how young Derek looks while he’s not putting up a front the way he usually does if the curt nods he gives the sherriff are anything to go by. Not the Derek asleep bathed in morning light; his features are softened under the sunlight creeping through the window, and he looks too innocent for an ex-con. Defenceless is the word. The all-growls and push-ups Derek Hale downright looks defenceless when he’s asleep with a little trickle of drool at the side of his mouth. 

“Derek,” his voice sounds weird which is the first thing that sets the sheriff alert. He runs a perfunctory scan of the premises: Stiles’s room, window shut tightly, no signs of breaking and entering, door firmly shut and he can’t pick out any other alarming entities other than a Derek Hale, who, if sheriff’s honest with himself, doesn’t pose much of a threat unless he counts drooling on his teenage son’s pillow. 

He tries to extract himself from Hale’s death grip, and that’s the second his brain picks up something is indefinitely wrong. He’s wearing batman boxers, and no top,

He wrangles his right hand free and runs it through his hair, which feels longer, in a lost attempt to regain some semblance of what is going on. The body next to him objects to his ministrations though, there’s a low hum of a growl emanating from the body lying next to him and that’s enough to send the sheriff in to scan the perimeter mode. Derek Hale apparently purrs when his morning routine is invaded, because that was a distinct purr, one that sounded much like a kitten re-sharpening it’s claws on human flesh like cookie dough.

He extracts his arm just as the body lying next to him grunts and gropes blindly to the empty space occupying the space right behind him. 

“Stiles, go back to sleep,” Derek mutters, mouth still half smushed into the pillow. Sheriff doesn’t even deign that with a response. He’s too busy trying to figure out the particular twilight zone he seems to be stuck in, while he waits for Derek to expand on the surreptitious relationship he apparently has with Stiles. 

“Wanna knot you,” Derek slur-growls, honest to god _growls_ right behind his ear, punctuating his sentence with little thrusts of his hips and yup, there’s the unmistakable hardness of a dick between his asscheeks and sheriff is decidedly not blushing nor confused. He doesn’t know what _knotting_ translates into regarding the jargon kids use these days, but Derek has started to grind his hips in a very demanding way, and John’s about to put a stop to all of it but he gets interrupted by a shriek that he will deny to his grave that came from his vocal cords. “Wanna knot you and keep you here,” Derek mumbles while still grinding his rock hard erection into the Sheriff’s ass. Derek’s moved onto dragging his stubble along his neck, leaving little marks and stubble-burn, biting down hard on the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder before John can have another attempt at dislodging him.

The door to Stiles’s door slams open, and there’s _himself_ standing in the doorway with an expression that is both panicked and constipated that probably mirrors his own as he tries to prop himself up on his elbows, 

“Derek wake up !” The body that’s himself slings a discarded hoodie right in Derek’s face and the boy finally stutters back into consciousness, releasing the death grip he has on John and suddenly grows very, very still, eyes darting from the body lying next to him to the one standing in the doorway. Thankfully Derek also inclines his hips away from the sheriff’s ass as well. 

“Stiles,” John grits out, sitting up on the bedding finally having himself untangled from Derek’s unyielding bulk, which has now transformed a sad lump smothered in all the blankets, slowly dragging up the sheets all around him until suspecting eyebrows shooting at a mile from John to the body occupying the sheriff’s that stands in the doorway. 

“Dad ?” Sheriff’s voice croaks from the body standing in mild shock at the door. 

Sherriff has endured his plate of the supernatural buffet, but nothing will top the cherry on top that is hearing his son’s unsure voice coming from his own body. 

“Okay so, well. This has been revelatory,” John just gives him the stink eye, he’ll deal with this later, and oh boy oh boy Stiles is _wrong_ if he thinks the sheriff won’t give him a hard time about this. 

Apparently Stiles didn’t get the memo that being acceptive of his son’s sexual preferences does not translate to him being accepting of Stiles’s preferred bedmate being an ex-convict that is six years older than him and also, an alpha werewolf. 

“In more ways than one !” Stiles barrels on forward, “so like maybe let’s extract ourselves from this situation and have an amendment over breakfast. Which I will be preparing in about half an hour. “ Upon Derek’s desperate look from beneath the blanket fort he seems to have built in record time, he adds, “Because of reasons,” he adds weakly as John just grimaces. His kid, ladies and gentlemen. 

He hopes breakfast will clarify some of the clusterfuck they seem to have themselves engaged in, and the Hale boy’s looking all flushed right up to the tips of his ears and refuses to meet his gaze, all the while trying to do the crab walk towards the bathroom with half of the blankets still wrapped around him. John decides to put him out of his misery. 

“Son, just go,” he sighs. “ If you’re not out by twenty, I will knock on the door.” He drops for good measure. 

Derek casts him a pitiful look with his expressive eyes, before dropping the blankets and trying to cover his crotch in a pitiful attempt and doing a perfect rendition of an injured race horse while hobbling towards Stiles’s bathroom. John heaves another sigh. It’s going to be one of _those_ days. 

“Aw hell,” he mutters when he deigns to look down and sees his boxers are tenting. John absolutely refuses to jack off In this body, so blueballs it is. 

*

The breakfast, is awkward to say the least. Derek looms over like a miserable lump just outside the kitchen before John sighs and asks him to join them, please. Stiles whips up a quick serving of scrambled eggs, toast and bacon much to sheriff’s delight short lived delight, though John can feel the guilt seeping in there. 

He glances from Derek’s timid stature to Stiles’s worried glances, like John will shoot Derek with wolfsbane bullets if he so much reaches for salt and pepper.

He clears his throat before starting, both Derek’s and Stiles’s eyes snapping to him. “Clearly, something has gone wrong,” he starts, gesturing towards his own body, sitting across himself with his mouth hanging open. Stiles snaps his mouth shut after John raises his eyebrows. 

“Now I don’t know what’s going on,” 

“Um, I might,” Stiles speaks up for the first time, forking around his scrambled eggs. Derek hasn’t touched a single thing on his plate, eyeing both of them warily, and the kitchen window wistfully, like he wants to make a run for it. John makes a gesture for Stiles to go on. 

“I might have -uh,” Stiles runs his hand through his hair, making sheriff’s bedhead look even more ridiculous. 

“There’s this spell,” he hurriedly adds, ”that’s supposed to be a protective spell,” upon worried looks from both the sheriff and Derek, “it’s like a ward, it works with proximity, and dad was supposed to be working a night shift, I,” 

Sheriff hasn’t seen himself blush this hard since he asked Claudia on their first date. Whatever Stiles and Derek share must be pretty serious, at least to Stiles. He huffs as he realises he’ll need to have a heart to heart about hurting his kid and the repercussions with Hale. Not that he thinks it’ll be necessary, because Hale’s grown red as a ripe tomato, flushing up to the tips of ears while silently stabbing at a piece of bacon. He still hasn’t touched anything else on his plate, but his glances towards the kitchen window have become more frequent. 

Sheriff gladly scarves down his fair share under the mutinous glare of Stiles, which is simply weird, coming from his own appearance.

“Right,” he says. “Here’s what’s going to happen, you,” he points at Stiles with his fork, “will go seek out Deaton, and you,” he point at Derek, “are invited to dinner when this is sorted out,” He swipes the fork in a threatening manner when Hale pales a few shades and casts his glance downwards, looking mollified and mutters a “Yes, sir,” under his breath.

“You need to go to school,” Stiles pipes up and it’s John’s turn to look terrified at the prospect of going back to high school. 

“Can I ride the cruiser ?” Stiles asks hopefully. 

“No,” he says and watches in delight as Stiles’s (his own) face fall down. 

“You’ll take your jeep,” he says with finality after shovelling a helping of scrambled eggs and bacon into his mouth. “I will go to school because believe it or not I don’t want you missing another day,” Stiles winces, “You both will talk to Deaton and figure out a way to reverse this,” he gestures between himself and Stiles. “And you are not driving the cruiser.” He finishes off with a smirk. 

*** 

Stiles is panicking rightfully, once his dad leaves the house, presumably to go to school like he said. Derek looks like death incarnated next to him. 

“Um, Deaton ?” he manages to ask. 

“Just, why Stiles ? Why didn’t you just- I,” Derek goes a little green like he’s about to throw up, and Stiles pats his back gently.

“I told him I wanted to knot him,” Derek looks on the verge of vomiting, and it takes a moment for Stiles to register the words, and then he’s the one spluttering around his mug of coffee. 

“What,” 

“I. Told. Him. I. -“ Derek forces out, and there’s that constipated look again. 

“No, no I gotcha, I just didn’t. I. Knotting. That’s a thing then,” Stiles knows he’s blushing, he can feel his face grow hot, but instead of yanking him into a kiss which is what Derek usually does when Stiles gets all embarrassed about werewolf physiology, he gets this pained look, 

“I can’t, you look like, I just. I can’t.” Derek grits out, like it pains him to do, and Stiles for once, believes him that it does. 

“No I get it,” Stiles thinks back on barging in on them this very morning “I totally get it dude, I look like my dad and that’s,” he grimaces. 

“Let’s go see Deaton,” he sighs defeatedly, and Derek gives a curt nod. 

“ On the upside though, the conversation we were dreading is no longer necessary,” he chirps, and Derek emanates a low growl. “Right, right, my jeep’s out in the back.” 

*** 

Deaton’s clinic smells of dissipating cat piss and antiseptics as well as a thousand herbs including wolfsbane and aconite. If Stiles can smell it, he can’t imagine what it has to be doing for Derek’s heightened senses. Deaton’s awaiting them right behind the counter, he has his hands full of a tabby cat that seems to be hissing at him while he dabs a cotton ball soaked in antiseptics on the cat’s paw. 

They stand there for a couple minutes, watching as Deaton dabs the cat’s paw a couple times before locking it in a cage, ridding himself of the gloves as he turns an enigmatic smile at the sight of them. 

“Sheriff, Derek,” He smiles. “What can I do you for ?” 

It takes a moment for Stiles’s brain to reboot, 

“Stiles,” Deaton’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes grow slightly wider, and that’s as much of a reaction they’re going to get any. 

“There was spell,” he continues, disregarding the way Derek stiffens next to him. 

“Stiles ?” Deaton asks. 

“Yes. There seems to be a Freaky Friday situation going on.” At Deaton’s blank expression he sighs. 

“Really not even that ? Me and my dad, swapped bodies ? It’s friday ? Lindsay Lohan ? Nothing ?” he prompts. 

“I can see that.” Deaton concludes in his annoying I-know-but-am-not-willing-to-share-details kind of way. 

“Great. So you can maybe have an idea on how to reverse it ?” 

“I would need the original script of the spell you attempted to perform,” Deaton curls his lips. 

“ I have it here,” he shuffles around his backpack and find the page with the dogeared mark. 

“See, it was supposed to be a protective charm !” He exclaims. 

Deaton takes the book and reads over the script and hums in a way that sets Stiles’s nerves afloat, because Deaton is weird. He will never not be enigmatic and unhelpful unless they’re on the brink of death, and even then the bastard manages to look nonchalant. 

“You went about the spell the wrong way,” Deaton offers, 

“Yeah, _duh_ ” Stiles proclaims when he feels Derek squeezing his hand. 

“The spell’s about safety, but not in the sense you perceive it to be,” Deaton says, “It would transform your being to the closest available vessel, exchanging essences, and since your father was present during the casting of the spell,” He does something close to a grimace. 

“Me and my dad,” Stiles echoes hollowly. 

“If your subconsciousness perceived his body as a safe vessel,”

“Could you at least _try_ to make it sound less like your the resident organ mafia, jesus,” 

“Stiles !” Derek gives him another squeeze which snaps him back to their current predicament. 

“Right, how do I reverse it ? There has to be a way, there has to-“

“There is,” Deaton’s eyes are sparkling with amusement Stiles doesn’t really appreciate. “You’ll just have to wait till the next full moon since you seem to be drawing the majority of your power from Mr. Hale here,” and um, _what_. 

“Were-magic is unique,” Deaton continues, “Wolves possess magic,” he smiles at Derek’s dumbfound expression, “But they only extend it to their mates, which not something you can arrange,”Deaton beams at them and Stiles suddenly feels trapped like his clothes are too tight and there’s a lump wedged in his throat. 

“So uh, three days ? Full moon I mean,” He isn’t risking stealing a glance towards Derek. 

“I have the counter spell, yes. It will take full effect on three days posterior. Make sure to have your father present in the circle.” Deaton smiles once again, like he’s privy to something Stiles hasn’t caught upon yet. 

He thanks Deaton, and hears Derek’s muttered thanks before his phone’s ringing and goddamnit his father’s being called into the station. 

He speaks into the radio, letting his father’s deputies that he’s on his way, and Derek sticks close to him as if he’s afraid of letting Stiles out of his sight. 

The drive to the station in his jeep is silent as Derek just sits in the passenger seat and stares out the window pensively where Stiles is all buzzing anxiety aching with the weight of the inquiries he has for Derek as he pulls onto the driveway out on the back. They make their way into the station, Stiles a fidgety ball of nervous wreck with Derek in tow. 

The station is packed, and Stiles spots Parrish by the register and strides over to him to get a hang of the situation. 

“Hi sheriff, sorry for the late call, it’s being handled,” 

“Right, that’s good,” Stiles says and tries to avoid the curious glances their way, undoubtedly directed at Derek. 

“I have some uh- urgent business I need to take care of, so if you could make it that we don’t get disrupted,” 

Parrish nods at them before giving Derek a once-over and _winks_ at Stiles which makes him want to vomit, because seriously, his _dad_ , and Derek’s on the same page if his facial expressions are anything to go by. 

“Uh, no, I,” 

“Don’t worry about it boss.” Parrish winks _again_ and disappears through the double doors before Stiles can get another word in. 

Stiles locks the door once they’re in the office and bounces on the balls of his feet with nervous energy now that he is actually in an enclosed space with Derek. Derek, who eyes one of the windows just as wistfully, and Stiles has had enough of this bullshit. 

“Look, I know this is isn’t ideal,”

“Really.” Derek snorts sourly. 

“Yes, really you assmunch, I, the spell was,” Stiles huffs a frustrated noise. 

“Look, it was supposed to be a ward okay. Like Deaton said, it was supposed to be a protective ward, designated on proximity, I didn’t _know_ my dad would take the morning shift instead, the spell was, it’s,” Stiles can’t actually expose that it was a ward he pried off of from the remnants of the burn out shell of a mansion that used to be Derek’s family house. 

“It’s fine,” Derek sounds resigned, as if he’s tired and Stiles can’t deal with that, not when what they’ve established still remains so fragile, like it could blow over with this one little stunt Stiles tried to pull over thinking it would be a meaningful gesture, something to give back to Derek in compensation. 

“It would have been,” he mutters, knowing full well Derek can hear him out. 

“Look it was, I didn’t know okay,” he tries to deflect. 

“I’m not mad,” Derek sounds tired which raises Stiles’s hackles further because damnit, he was trying to do something special for both of them. 

“I found the spell in your attic,” he mumbles, and doesn’t miss the sharp snap of Derek’s gaze. 

“I thought it would be special since it was going to be my birthday and it would have been a protective ward, drawing power from your-“ Stiles doesn’t want to say family, but really, there are not many synonyms for that one, “the triskelion, and _I know_ I didn’t think this all the way through, okay, but still it was,” 

And then Derek’s vaulting from his chair and makes an abortive move just before crowding himself in Stiles’s personal space, and suddenly Stiles has 200 lbs of werwolf pinning him against his dad’s stationary. 

“I really want to kiss you,” Derek grits out,

“Uh,” 

“You look, you _smell_ ,” Derek buries his face in the crook of his neck and _oookay_ maybe Derek’s not as upset as he initially garnered. Derek pulls back while his arms still bracketing Stiles, “You smell like home,” and that hits Stiles harder than anything else. He wants to kiss Derek, to make it better, soothe and provide for Derek (he’s been hanging around werewolves way too much), 

The message notification snaps him out of his reverie and he feels relief flood him once he reads Deaton’s message. 

" _Found the counter spell. Don’t need to wait until the full moon._ ” That’s all it says. 

“Deaton’s found the counter spell,” he offers and Derek jolts back, as if struck by lightning. 

They leave the sheriff’s room in a hurry, and Stiles does his best to evade all too knowing looks and smirks from deputies all around, fighting a losing battle with the creeping blush upon his cheeks. 

***

The counter spell turns out to be easy, it’s just some archaic latin with a helpful dose of mountain ash and monkshood that requires Derek, Stiles and John to form a circle while holding hands (talk about awkward) and Deaton looking gleeful as he recites the short passage, and the next thing Stiles knows is his vision receding to black. 

*** 

John has dreaded a lot of things since he figured out he would be raising Stiles on his own. Stiles was handful when he was a kid, and nothing had changed much. Right from when Stiles half heartedly came out to him outside the resident gay bar  
( _” Uh- well, dad- There's a conversation that we..._  
You're not gay.  
I could be! ) 

John still feels guilty about his initial response, but all of that dissipates when Derek Hale and Stiles walk in through the front door. Stiles stands there like a statue under his gaze, before strolling in with fake bravado, talking a mile a minute, John’s not even listening the half of It, knowing Stiles, it’s something about the health benefits of kale or something equally offensive. No, his gaze is trained on Hale, who’s inching closer and closer to the couch, as if he can somehow mould himself to be part of the armrest. John clears his throat and there’s a respective clamour that accompanies Stiles’s yelp. 

“Take a seat son,” he does his best to equip a non-threatening expression. Hale scoots closer dubiously, carefully sitting down while keeping his gaze trained on the cutlery Stiles set out. 

“I’m going to assume you are being safe,” Sheriff starts and is rewarded by bits off scrambled eggs that splutter from Stiles’s mouth, 

“Dad !” 

“Using condoms,” Sheriff continues because he feels entitled to a little psychological torture after being exposed to live through chemistry as the first period. 

“Stiles is going to go to college,” He directs towards Hale, who locks eyes with him for the first time. 

“Of course.” He says determined. 

“I don’t want him to compensate for anything, or _anyone,_ ” 

“I agree,” Hale says it with such softness, before adding “he’s brilliant,” and John feels like smacking his face. Derek looks all gloomy like he’s already accepted that John would disapprove of their relationship, like Stiles’s happiness doesn’t mean anything to him, and Stiles is spluttering indignantly next to him, glowering and trying to express his disappointment through his eyebrows. 

“Curfew’s at eleven. Not a minute past.” He states and revels in the surprised look on both of their faces. 

“I take it I can trust you Derek,” 

“You can,” Derek says still looking disbelieving. 

“Um so. We’re gonna,” Stiles steals a glance towards the clock, “be back in two hours and thirty eight minutes,” he says while dragging Derek outside. 

***

“What?” Stiles asks once they’re out by the porch. 

“Your dad just said,” Derek looks a little green around the edges, so Stiles chooses to soothe him with a soft kiss, which Derek reciprocates all too enthusiastically. 

“He just said,” Derek pulls back, panting, swollen lips and mussed hair, and Stiles has an inkling that this is _it_ for him. 

“He said no talk of knotting until you’re eighteen,” Derek grits out and Stiles squawks and hits Derek on the pecks. 

He can wait a couple months. (He doesn’t).


End file.
